


Rack Time

by Dr_Roslin



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Battlestar Galactica - All Media Types
Genre: Excessive use of Frak, F/M, Fluff with Porn, Frakking brilliant, Imagination is the key here, It's before they find Kobol so, It's kinda porn, Just a cute little foray into their respective thoughts, Laura is thirsty, Maybe its not that fluffy, Most versatile word ever, Neither one is happy about it, No Pregnancy, Safe to Read if Triggered by Pregnancy, Standing Sex, Table Sex, The angst is built-in, The angst is present as always but is kinda fluffy, Vaginal Sex, bill is thirsty, definitely smutty, enjoy, okay, very light though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24171205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Roslin/pseuds/Dr_Roslin
Summary: Bill is thirsty. Laura is thirsty. Neither one knows exactly what to do about it, especially since they are barely starting to get to know each other. That doesn't stop either one from wondering...
Relationships: William Adama/Laura Roslin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Rack Time

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags and don't yell at me.

Frak. 

It would really help if he stopped imaging her naked in his rack. 

It would help even more if he could stop imaging her naked, full-frakking-stop. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t see that happening anytime soon. He reminded himself to keep trying, though. This was becoming increasingly awkward. She was the frakking President of the Twelve frakking Colonies of frakking Kobol, for frak’s sake, not some random groupie he was trying to pick up in a bar. 

He placed the blame for his lack of willpower firmly where it belonged. Her legs. It would really help if she didn’t have the legs of a frakking Rockette, even hidden as they were under those long pencil skirts. Those skirts whose practical material belied the fact that they clung to her body, outlining ever inch of her legs and every curve of her stupendous ass. 

Frak.

He was doing it again. In any case. It had to be her frakking legs. It was the only explanation for why he often found himself distracted during their frequent meetings, especially since she never seemed to sit the frak still. She never stopped crossing and uncrossing those insanely well-formed and decidedly un-presidential legs, except for when she shifted to curl them to the side or stretch them out to their fullest length, occasionally pausing mid-way to work out the kinks that had clearly developed from sitting overly long. He knew she was probably just finding a way to stretch out the kinks (frak Baltar could ramble on), but still, it would really help if she could stop taunting him with just how long those glorious frakking legs were. Long, and smooth, toned with just the slightest hint of the supple muscle which lay beneath. Flexible, too, he thought…

Frak.

It had to be her legs. If it was just her ass, waving in front of him as she ascended the ladder to the landing bay were _Colonial_ _One_ was parked, he told himself repeatedly, he could probably deal with the inappropriate thoughts. 

(He had to watch her go up the frakking ladder, he justified to himself. It wasn’t as if could let any of his crew follow her up and watch her ass as she ascending the stupid thing. The scuttlebutt regarding their new President was bad enough as it was. So, as much as tried to discreetly avert his eyes, he was stuck watching her ass and those legs wiggle their way up. Sweet torture, and it wasn’t helping him control the nightly fantasies, either.)

So, no, he wouldn’t have this problem if it was just her ass. If it was just that, if it was just the rest of her and not her legs, he could (probably) keep it under control. He was a grown man, after all, not some rookie Viper jock, fresh off the farm and salivating over the first socialite he’d ever seen. If it was just her ass, or her skin, which always smelled sweet some how, even after weeks on the run. If it was just the curve of her cheek, or her smile, her real smile, not the political one, the real one, the one she sometimes gifted him with…If it was just her giggle, which belied the strength of her character, or her disarming intellect, or her surprising ruthlessness in impossible situations, or her excellent taste in books, or her natural compassion… 

Frak. 

Any of this, even _all_ of this, he reassured himself, he would be able to resist, he was sure he would have been able to deal with. Able to push aside to allow him to focus on who she was, what her position meant, what they needed to do, how they needed to work together to keep their peoples moving forward. All of this he was sure he could have pushed aside to focus on seeing her as what she was, a trusted ally and friend. 

But no. 

The nightly fantasies, which were growing more and more vivid, they simply wouldn’t stop. 

So, yes. He blamed her frakking legs.

That was the only reason he kept waking up in the middle of the night, hard and aching, wondering if she was asleep in her own small cot over on _Colonial_ _One_. The only reason he could imagine being unable to stop picturing what it would be like, to have her under him, or, better yet, pinned between him and the bulkhead of his old Battlestar, him deep inside her, her skirt shoved up over her glorious ass, her legs, those frakking legs wrapped around him, her angles digging in to him, urging him on, while her practical heels lay forgotten on the floor. Him deep inside her, pounding harder and harder, deeper and deeper…

Frak. 

He was doing it again. It had to be her legs. He was a grown man, and she was fast becoming a close friend. He could control himself, he needed to. He hadn’t seen her value, hadn’t for some time, until he woke up one morning and realized that she was in fact a necessity. A necessity for the Fleet, for their future. For his son, for frak’s sake. For him, though he had long been loath to admit it. It wasn’t just that he needed her as a partner, as his second (civilian) half. There was more than that. There was that connection there, that need, that comfort. He didn’t really care what you called it.

She was necessary, and that’s all he really needed to know. 

So yes, maybe he pictured what it would be like. The two of them, dinner, alone, talking and laughing the way they increasingly did, her faultless impersonation of Gaius Baltar leaving them in puddles on the floor. Finding her naked in his frakking rack when he woke the next morning, her long, supple legs draped across his thighs, their bodies both reacting to the memories of the previous night. Her pussy, still damp from the night before, pressed firmly up against his cock. A quick frak before they got up. (A tiny, mischievous voice whispered in his ear. ‘Save Water. Shower with a Friend.’) Okay, one more frak in the shower. Just to ensure they got their day off on the right foot. They’d eat their breakfast standing up. 

He knew it was impossible. If anyone knew it was impossible, he did. They’d become increasingly close in these last days, since that exhilarating victory at the tylium mines, since that disastrous dinner with Ellen Tight. Still. That didn’t mean she was any close to seeing him in that light, even if it weren’t for the fact of their respective positions. Even if she wasn’t technically his frakking boss, even if he wasn’t simply a broken-down Viper pilot with too many scars and not enough frakking charm. Even then, there was no guarantee she’d even look at him twice. 

Even if he wasn’t increasingly worried about her. He caught it sometimes, that look in her eye. The one she got when she drifted away, even while she stayed in her chair with her index finger holding her place on the report they were reading. He probably wouldn’t have caught it, those moments, after all no one else seemed to, except for the fact that he found it hard to stop looking at her, much as he tried. 

It worried him enough, how she disappeared in those moments. Like she wasn’t really with them. Like she’d already left them behind. It worried him enough, would have caused him enough concern, to have called her on it. Except. He knew post-traumatic shock could hit different people differently, at different times. It worried him enough, this disconnect, that he would have stepped in.

If he was sure it was only that.

It worried him, more, the occasional glances that her aide shot her when he was sure no one else as looking, the way Billy hovered at her side even more than he should of. That accidental radio call for Doc Cottle, the times when he held his hand at her back, never touching her but always there, waiting, seemingly just in case. It worried him more, the way Billy looked at her sometimes. Worried him enough to wait. To watch. 

It worried him that she increasingly spoke to Doc Cottle, that their consultations were almost daily, that she built in extra time in her schedule to see him whenever she had meetings on _Galactica_. It worried him more that Cottle had a shuttle on stand-by. Bill had always prided himself on knowing everything that went on his ship, always had. He could miss that, any more than could the glances Cottles’ nurses gave her. The way Jack always kept his bag with him, like he might be called away at any time.

Frak. What did that woman think she was hiding from him? 

Allergies my ass. 

He respected that people had a right to their secrets, but it was increasingly apparent that he needed to know. And why, after all this time, did she still feel the need to hide from him?

It worried him most, the time she spent with the high priestess, this woman who struck him as utterly pragmatic, who’d once struck him as remote, who hid that fire so well behind her practical façade. He’d never pictured it, Laura Roslin spending hours communing with Elosha, he never would have thought the two would have that much in common. So, yes, it worried him. Worried him she had Elosha almost permanently on call. 

Worried him. It seemed a significant part of his brain was caught up with worrying about… Laura. He might as well call here that in his thoughts, he did in his dreams already. So yes, he knew all the reasons he shouldn’t, couldn’t think of her that way, why he had to stop before he embarrassed himself by getting a hard-on during one of their meetings. Like a fifteen-year-old boy, hiding his frakking erection with a file folder. 

Fantasizing about sending everyone out of the room so they could discuss matters of the ‘highest confidence’, and spreading her across the conference table while she peeled her panties off just for him. Spreading her legs to welcome him and lifting her hips so that she was at that perfect height for him to frak her while she screamed his name and panted for the gods.

Frak.

***

Frak. 

It would be helpful if she could stop wondering how he’d feel inside her. It would help even more if she could stop wondering what kind of lover he would be. How it would feel as what she knew would be his thick, heavy cock force its way inside her, force her to spread her legs even farther to accommodate his girth, force her to concentrate on her breathing as he surged inside her. 

It was beginning to be increasingly awkward. Sometimes she had to remind herself not to stare at his shoulders during their increasingly frequent meetings. Their growing friendship and increasing intimacy meant they were increasing comfortable with each other. It should have made it easier to control her fantasies. It did not. The more time they spent together, the easier they were with each other, the more she had to control her urge to march over and free his cock before climbing on top of him, leaving her free to run her hands through his glorious head of hair, to have his hands snake under her blouse and pull it up to expose her aching breasts to his tongue while she rode him until she came so hard she couldn’t remember anything other than the way he felt inside her.

Frak.

She was doing it again. She was the frakking President of the Twelve frakking Colonies of frakking Kobol, not a teenage groupie looking to score with a hot frakking Viper pilot. Why she couldn’t control her growing fantasies regarding Adama she had no idea. Gods knows thinking of him this way was a bad idea, even if he wasn’t the head of her military forces, and even if he hadn’t made it abundantly clear that he found her tedious. As her partner in the command of this rag-tag fleet, they may be finding new ways to work together, he may have made it clear he was growing to respect her, her leadership. 

That didn’t mean he enjoyed her company. It didn’t mean he was likely to share in the fantasies which increasingly encroached on her working hours as well as her nightly dreams. Damn Chamalla. It made her dreams so realistic, made it harder for her to tell what was dream and what was reality.

Fantasizing about Adama also wasn’t going to help her in dealing with the end of her days, as the unnatural ending of her time in this life. She shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t be _physically_ _able_ to feel this way, as the cancer ate her alive from the inside. Still, apparently no one had bothered to tell her hormones. She continued to ache daily, continued to struggle each day to deal with the pain and the aching and the fear. Having these vivid, detailed, overwhelming fantasies that hit her with the force of a transport truck at unexpected moments only made it more difficult to concentrate. To focus on what she needed to do. 

She _needed_ to work with Adama, _needed_ to have him trust _her_ , work with _her_ , and her body’s reaction to him kept getting in her way. She lived in dread that she might let something slip in their meetings, might get caught starring at him, staring at his lips, get caught while she fantasized about him having her pinned up against the bulkhead, pounding deep inside her, her skirts bunched up around her waist, her legs wrapped his hips, her heels urging him on.

Frak.

Apparently, she wasn’t going to be able to control these fantasies any time soon, so she’d learn to control it. She didn’t want to, wanted instead to simply climb into his bed and spend the day exploring his powerful body with her tongue, forget there were anyone but them in the old Battlestar out beyond the Red line. But she couldn’t, any more than he could, even imagining he would want to. Since Colonial Day they’d come to know each other so much better. Come to trust each other, even if she wasn’t ready to trust him with the truth of her pitiful future. She wasn’t ready to jeopardize that that, to have him look at her with disdain, or worse, pity. 

Frak.

So. She’d find a way to control her urges, enjoy his company, and maybe, just maybe, tell him about her hopes and fears regarding her role in this one-way journey they were on. Tell him about what she’d learnt regarding the scriptures and the prophecies and the cancer and the Dying Leader. The gods hadn’t been kind, that much was true to her, to her people. But maybe they’d be kind enough to have his friendship, especially now when she needed it most. 

Meanwhile she’d just have to keep her hands - uh, fantasies - to herself.

Even if it got harder to do so every frakking day.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [@RandomBks](https://twitter.com/RandomBks)


End file.
